


A Personal Interest

by rileywrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, King Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Pre-OT3, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileywrites/pseuds/rileywrites
Summary: "Get up, Argent. You've been summoned." The jailer sneers. "Apparently, the king has taken a personal interest in your case.""Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. Speak only when spoken to. Use your goddamn manners if you want to keep your head." The jailer pauses at the huge oaken doors to the throne room, giving Argent a moment to get his feet under him and take a breath. "Got it?""Yes." The jailer yanks his shackles, cutting into the cuts already gracing his wrists. "Damn, yes sir.""Better. Keep your wits about you, man, or this may be the last room you see."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nebulous fantasy AU is nebulous. Enjoy.

"Get up, Argent. You've been summoned." The jailer sneers. "Apparently, the king has taken a personal interest in your case."

The jailer doesn’t give him the option, hauling him to his feet and forcing him out of his cell by his shackled wrists. He drags him out of the depths of the dungeon, through the hallways past the huge kitchen, out into the courtyard, and into the main hall of the castle.

"Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. Speak only when spoken to. Use your goddamn manners if you want to keep your fucking head." The jailer pauses at the huge oaken doors to the throne room, giving Argent a moment to get his feet under him and take a breath. "Got it?"

"Yes." The jailer yanks his shackles, cutting into the cuts already gracing his wrists. "Fuck, yes _sir_."

"Better. Keep your wits about you, man, or this may be the last room you see."

The doors open, and Chris Argent keeps his head down as they walk through the crowd of courtiers to the front of the room.

Argent is shoved to his knees at the edge of the crowd, front and center before the throne.

He's kneeling (against his will) before King Stanislaw the Second of Nemeton and her dominions, Lord Protector of Beacon, Duke of Stilinski, defender of the Spark, leader of the Order of Smoke and Ash, and all-around pain in Argent's ass. The king is sprawled in the throne, limbs akimbo, coronet low over one brow, smirk plastered firmly in place.

Argent wants to hate him.

It would be more convenient if he hated him.

"Ah, Master Argent, thank you for accepting my invitation," the smarmy bastard drawls, like it was an option.

"It is an honor, my king," Argent says through gritted teeth, eyes firmly on the flagstones in front of his knees.

"Don't lie to me, Argent. It's unbecoming." The king leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Chris can see him in his peripheral vision, very careful not to look up without permission.

If he wants to leave this room without adding his blood to the rushes on the floor, he'll keep his eyes to himself.

"How are you finding our hospitality this last week or so?" The king asks. "The truth."

"Miserable, sire. Damp, cold, not enough food, too many beatings."

"All valid concerns." There's a smirk in his voice that Argent wants to smack off of the young regent's face. "To be expected, given the circumstances. Any positives?"

"I'm not dead, and my daughter is safe."

"You're right, she's safe. No thanks to you." The king murmurs to someone, and black boots walk into Chris' field of view. "Show me his face."

A hand fists in Chris' too-long hair and forces his face up. The hand belongs to the King's right hand man himself, the lapdog werewolf they call the Hound of Smoke and Ash.

Peter Hale's eyes flash blue when Chris makes accidental eye contact. Chris hurries to avert his gaze, traitorous heart pumping. 

"You don't look too bad, just in need of a scrubbing and some food." The king nods, and Hale drops Chris' head. "Your father is dead, as is your sister."

Chris doesn't react. He thought as much.

"The Lady Allison is safe at Beacon Manor with Scott, Duke of McCall, and the wedding is scheduled for next month."

No reaction, but this time is harder.

"According to our sources, the plan that almost killed you wasn't your plan. You wanted no part in this endeavor."

He's not wrong. Argent struggles not to show anything in his face. He doubts that he succeeds, under the watchful eye of the court.

"You are being moved from the dungeon to the guest wing. You will be confined to your chamber, but you will be allowed some liberties, as I see fit." Stilinski smirks. "Be good, or the gilded cage will chafe as much as the iron."

"Yes, your grace." Argent bows his head just a little, just enough to pay lip service to etiquette. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, yet. Take him away."

The jailer yanks Chris to his feet and drags him back through the crowd. This time, they don't cross the muddy courtyard, but instead head for the west wing of the castle.

"You are a lucky bastard," the jailer growls. "No idea why his majesty doesn't just have you executed."

"My beauty and grace," Chris drawls, insolence dripping from his tongue.

When they arrive at Chris' new cell, a small room on the second floor of the west wing, the jailer throws him in.  He uncuffs his shackles and steps back.

"Don't fuck with anything, or you'll be back in the hole with me." The jailer spits in his face, and Chris comes _this close_ to ripping his head from his body through sheer rage.

He only barely manages to keep his hands to himself.

The heavy oak door swings shut behind the jailer, the bolt sliding shut with a finite-sounding clank. Chris is alone, well and truly alone, for the first time since before the final battle.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, and he's too sore to move much, so he settles for leaning against the wall and looking around the room.

Window, barred shut, across the room from the door, with a low window seat. Bed on the wall to the right, two pillows and a warm-looking fur over the quilt. Fireplace with a chair and table to the left - no poker, so the maids will have to keep it going. Nothing he could hurt someone with easily. Smart.

A cluster of maids and servitors bustle in to supervise his bathing and leave him alone with his dinner- no knife, no fork.

For a moment, he considers the possibility that it's poisoned. Then, realizing that it doesn't actually matter one way or the other, he picks up a chunk of mutton and starts eating.

It's the first meal he's had other than hardtack in days, but he forces himself to pace himself, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. If he gorged himself, he'd be ill.

It isn't poisoned. Once the food is gone, Chris pokes around the room some more. There's a small cabinet set into the wall by the table, hiding a few small books.

Two books about the history of the seven kingdoms, one about the atrocities of hunters who broke the code, and one with no title. Instead, it has a note, scrawled in a spiky hand.

_Argent - Do not doubt what is possible if you attempt to cross the crown._

It's a handwritten book on how to torture and kill a traitorous human, written in Peter Hale's own handwriting.

Chris recognizes it from notes he burned years ago. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chris stays in the room for a fortnight, time passing outside his window, hours marked by maids bringing his meals or stoking his fire. He gets another bath, this one less heavily guarded.

Another two weeks pass, endless day after endless day, passed only through reading his books. He avoids the custom one on torture for as long as he can, but eventually he tires of the other books. 

He doesn't sleep for two nights after he reads Peter Hale's treatise on how to kill a hunter.

Two months into his new sentence, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. Chris reaches for the knife he used to keep under his pillow, forgetting his circumstances in his half-wakeful state.

"Who is it?" He asks, voice raspy with sleep and disuse. "What do you want?"

A key turns in the lock, and the door swings open, hinges groaning. Outlined by the torches in the hall, the Hound of Smoke and Ash appears in the doorway.

"Hale?"

"Argent. I've been sent to fetch you."

"Since when do they send the captain of the Royal Guard to fetch a lowly prisoner?"

"Since the king woke me in the middle of the night and asked me to fetch you. Up, get dressed, he is not a patient man."

Chris fumbles into his clothes and tugs on his boots, fingers clumsy on the laces. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths as he laces his breeches and tucks in his shirt. This is just a bizarre midnight meeting with the King and his most loyal knight, nothing more.

Nothing like midnight execution or a return to the dungeon or a session of torture or anything. Just some sort of meeting.

Chris may be near mad from isolation, but even he isn't dumb enough to believe his own hand-waving explanations.

For a brief moment, the part of him that is still asleep flashes back to a similar night many years ago.

_"Shh, you'll wake the whole house. You don't want your father to hear,  do you?"_

_One hand down his breeches, the other over his mouth._

_"What would he say if he saw you like this? Saw you screwing around with a wolf?"_

When he clues back in, Peter is smirking, like he knows what Chris is thinking.

"Come along, Argent. The King is waiting."

…

Hale escorts him to the East wing of the castle, the king's wing. They walk through what seems like miles of hallway in a spiral to the center of the wing.

Chris wonders why he isn't blindfolded, until he realizes.

There's no point hiding your secrets from a man you never intend to let out alive.

The door to the king's privy chamber swings open, and Hale leads him inside. The king is lounging in an armchair by the fire, down to his shirtsleeves and breeches, no shoes, no crown, no sword.

Chris is still very aware that this is the most dangerous man in the seven kingdoms.

"Good, you've brought him. Drop him here, for me."

Chris is put on his knees before his sovereign for the second time in two weeks. This time, he goes more willingly, Peter's claws brushing his throat.

Everyone in the room ignores his shiver.

The king should look vulnerable, sprawled as he is with no discernible weaponry to hand, but as a candle spark-catches into flame without anyone touching it, Chris is intensely aware that not all weaponry is visible.

The king eyes him for a long time, and Chris doesn't dare break eye contact, even as honey brown blows to pure blazing gold and back again.

Whatever the King is, it sure as shit isn't human. The Order of the Silver Arrows used to tell bawdy stories of the Nemeton line lying with Fair Folk, too dumb not to be caught in their traps.

Now, he knows that the rumors were both completely true and immeasurably false, all at once.

"While you acted against the Crown, you did not craft the scheme, nor did you wish to enact it," the king finally says at long last. "This was your father's plan, your sister's. Never yours. After all, what did you stand to gain? Nothing."

Chris doesn't disagree.

"But you had everything to lose, didn't you? Your wife?"

Chris flinches at her memory.

"Your daughter?"

Wed to a werewolf, one of the King's favorites.

The King nods slowly, eyes still trained on him.

"So you did what must be done. Now, though, your father and sister are dead, your wife is dead, your daughter is safe with Sir McCall. You have nothing left to lose but your life."

A long stretch of silence, until finally-

"What do you want from me?" Chris pleads. "Please, kill me or tell me, I cannot keep waiting like this."

Peter's claws tighten on his throat, and Chris closes his eyes. Finally, a decision.

"Look at me," the king commands.

He does so. He has no other option.

"I want you to advise me. There are still Silver Arrows who have not been defeated, and factions rising in the north who are anti-magic. I don't have a human in my circle yet, let alone one as connected as you."

"If I say yes?"

"You move to better rooms, closer to the center of the castle. You regain most of your freedom, within reason, though you will not be allowed to leave the castle grounds. You will be part of tactical and strategic discussions with my other top advisors. It will be as if you were nobility yourself?"

"If I say no?"

"You stay where you are for the foreseeable future. Same four walls, same three books. No visitors, no letters, just a glorified jail cell."

To be honest, he was expecting something more violent. Then again, a violent end would be preferable to the future that the king is suggesting if he says no.

Chris drops his head as much as he can with Peter's hand on his throat.

"I humbly accept the offer of joining your service, your grace. I apologize for my indiscretions and actions against the crown, and I pledge my loyalty to you and to the Order."

Peter releases his throat, leaving him on his knees in favor of sliding into the armchair with the king and leaning close to his ear.

"See, Stiles? I told you he was pretty when put in his place."

The king hums thoughtfully, hand weaving through Peter's hair and holding him close.

"He looks good on his knees," the king agrees.

The next thing to spark-catch is Chris, blood rushing to his face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

****The servants have Chris' new room in the west wing prepared when he arrives the next morning, a far larger chamber with full writing desk, shelf full of books, and proper fireplace equipment.

There are still bars on his windows, his gilded cage larger but no less restrictive. Not truly.

Then again, with the Silver Arrows all but defeated and the Argent name ruined, where would he go?

So long as he is where the king wants him when he wants him, Argent is free to go where other courtiers go, dining in the great hall if he so chooses, walking in the gardens, visiting the castle library (once the king gives the strict scribe his permission).

He doesn't do any of that, except for a weekly visit to the library to swap out his books. It's hard to eat when everyone in the Hall is staring at you and calling you a traitor.

No matter what the King says, the court holds its own opinion on the Argent name.

Every day, or close to it, Argent is summoned to the King's chambers to discuss the war with the other advisors.

It takes a while, but eventually the council has physical proof that they should listen to his suggestions.

A young squire bursts into the war room, waving a missive from the front.

"It's Ravenglen, sire. They've been attacked by the Arrows, but Argent's letter allowed them to prepare. No deaths, only a few wounded." The squire hands the letter to Hale, who hands it to the king, and drops to his knees, panting heavily.

"Fetch the boy some water," the King commands.

Chris already has his own mug to the boy's lips before the servants can even think to move.

"Easy, child. Easy, you've done your job. Little sips, slowly, or you'll be ill. That's it."

He pretends not to notice Hale's eyes burning holes into the side of his head.

"Deep breaths. You've got it, there you go."

Once the council realizes that Argent's information is good, they are far less likely to request he be removed from the room.

The squire, a boy named Isaac, visits him on every trip back to the castle, talking about the realities of war and the stress of living with a rage-filled father. When the squire's time of service is up, he receives a place supporting the king's guard.

(It may or may not be due to a request Chris murmured in Hale's ear one evening.)

…

The court moves from the winter castle at Embermount to the summer castle at Wildefell.

Chris moves into a room just down the hall from the King's privy chamber, with no bars on the windows.

However, the new accommodations come with heightened tension. Wildefall is far closer to the southern border with Haemonia and Deucalion's army.

A border town is attacked by a band from Clan Alpha, their distinctive spiral burned or clawed into every available surface.

"He needs to see your power for himself," Matthew suggests one night.

Chris trusts the smarmy bastard about as far as he can throw him, and even less so after that particular comment.

"I won't ride against Clan Alpha and Haemonia unless given good reason. Small-scale rebellion is not good reason."

"I'll go," Chris suggests, surprised when Hale also steps forward.

The king looks at Chris with his true eyes, the terrifying-yet-comforting glow of pure gold causing most in the room to squint.

"Send Argent. Let him prove himself, and let Haemonia see that even the humans in my army are deadly."

So Argent packs his bag, Isaac saddles his horse, and he leads a portion of the Order of Smoke and Ash south to the border of Haemonia.

"Let me come with you," Isaac asks at the gates.

"You aren't ready," Chris explains. "Next time," he promises.

(Before he leaves, the king fastens a gold chain around Chris' neck, the king's crest on the pendant.

"To remind everyone who you belong to," he explains, eyes dark.)

…

It's a trap.

Chris wakes from a haze, head throbbing from some sort of impact, unable to move his legs, arms bound.

"A fucking Argent, a traitor to his own kind, the king's pet human." The man towering over him has eyes like sea glass-- until they flare red.

Deucalion, the blind king himself.

"How the fuck did they think you'd handle yourself? Out of shape, weak to begin with."

The snick of claws extending is followed by a blazing trail of pure pain across his thigh.

"They could have sent anyone, but they sent _you_. They knew you would fail. They wanted you dead."

Chris closes his eyes again, only to be slapped across the face.

"Oh no, eyes open. I want you to see what's going on."

That's when he sees Matt, the traitorous bastard, hovering by the doorway. He looks almost ashamed of his actions-- almost, until he realizes Chris is looking at him and renews his scowl.

"You're a fucking mess, and you have absolutely no hope. You think they'll send someone to rescue you? Everyone else is fucking dead."

Chris has enough mental capacity to thank whomever may be listening that he made Isaac stay at Wildefell.

"So no one is coming for you."

Slice, sting, _burn._

Chris can't keep his eyes open. His body forces unconsciousness as a mercy to his brain.

…

The next time he wakes, it's to the sound of fighting going on outside the door to Deucalion's dungeons. For a moment, Chris can't process what's going on, until he sees Deucalion panicking.

Then, those claws are at his throat as the door opens. Gold light streams in, far brighter than a torch or the sun would manage.

"Come closer and I slit his throat," Deucalion threatens, claws pressing down enough to break skin. "I'll kill him."

The King himself strides into the room, hands and eyes both glowing gold. Deucalion's body is wrapped in an aura of the same light, and his hands are removed from Chris' body.

Then, Peter snaps Deucalion's neck by hand, and his corpse drops to the floor.

"You came for me," Chris rasps, voice hoarse and weak and pathetic.

"Of course we did." The king rushes to his side, gold light shifting green as he envelops Chris in the healing light. "Of course we did, you're mine, remember? I take care of what's mine."

"The king has taken a personal interest in you," Peter says, teasing despite the frantic way he's checking Chris for further injury. "I'd suggest you don't question it, it won't convince him otherwise."

The moment they're sure Chris is mostly healed, the king- _Stiles_ pulls him off of the table and into his arms, touching him like he's afraid Chris will disappear into mist.

"You're never going off without one of us ever again." He commands. "Why are humans so fucking fragile?"

Peter kisses the king and then Chris, holding them both like he can shield them from the world.

"To remind us of our own humanity."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. Do I even ship this? Who knows!


End file.
